Sunday, Bloody Sunday
by UnstableIntention
Summary: It might be about power, it might be about praise, but more than anything it's all about control.
1. Bloody Prelude

Peter will never admit it.

It's not that he can't.

He can do anything he sets his mind to; he's proved that a hundred times over.

No, he merely chooses not to.

It doesn't fit with the reputation he's earned, the bullet-proof façade of ' _can't-touch-me_ ' that he wears like a Kevlar vest.

So he won't admit it.

Doesn't admit it.

At least to anyone else.

Doesn't admit that ever since the fire, even when he was burning up with hatred and completely mad, all he really wanted, the driving force at the very core of his instincts, was just to be safe. To be cared for. To build a pack was to build a home, to build safety, and through the haze of ashy smoke and sickness _that_ had cut through like a Beacon, piercing through the fog of his thoughts and pushing his wolf forward, biting and slashing with miscalculated abandon.

He called himself the Alpha, that much was true - still did sometimes in fact. He'd fought for that power and wore it with pride, but in his heart he knew - as much as he wanted it to be, it wasn't really meant for him. There were two ways to _be_ Alpha, two ways to use it, but only one of them was right, only one of them was _meant_. Either you were an Alpha because you took the power and you used the power, _became_ the power, or you were given the power and then gave it away again, used it for your pack instead of for yourself.

Peter was not the latter.

Wasn't _meant_ to be who he wished he was.

Strange then that the happiest time in his life, the best times he could remember were when he'd been a part of a pack, a beta beneath his mother and then later his sister, safe within his family and his role. Yes, it was true he'd often rebelled, pulled pranks and pulled rank, skulked around his Alphas' orders, but in the end he'd been safe, safe under their commands, stable under their guidance and protection.

At least he thought he'd been.

Thought he'd been safe.

Maybe even happy.

His memory was understandably hazy.

And things were different now.

He was harder, sharper, darker, even more dangerous and even more deadly - though back then he wouldn't have thought that possible. His plotting and tricks had turned wicked, malicious even, and the things that were expected of him, though in a way eerily similar to what had been expected of him then, were all much darker too.

And in a way, that worked in his favor.

Because this, this was dark. Unexpected. _Deviant_.

So he could make it make sense if he had to, force it into a mold that fit even if it broke off corners and wore at the edges.

Luckily he felt no such compulsion for his own peace of mind; he was content with who and what he was. Or at the very least he appeared unable to summon the emotion it took to care. He enjoyed the act in and of itself, _for_ himself, and that was what mattered.

But others… that was different.

He'd made himself dangerous - unstoppable - and he'd done it for a reason. It was a façade he maintained meticulously, putting in immense amounts of time being mysterious in his comings and goings, always having an ulterior motive and an escape route, keeping up the sass and snark while keeping his claws and teeth sharp.

He had no intention of letting anything create an illusion of weakness in him, so he kept that bit of himself contained, until the situation arose in which it seemed far more beneficial for him to share it.

 **XXX**

Stiles had always thought he knew what it was to be cold.

To be jittery.

To be out of control.

He lived in California but he always wore layers, one of which was often a thermal, long-sleeved undershirt.

He had ADHD, and he often forgot to take his medication, making him twitchy and restless, desperate to move fast and hard.

He was the son of the Sheriff, his father's image and authority a constant shadow at the back of his mind, a rather tangential mind housed inside a teenage body that he'd never felt he'd quite grown into, all long, lanky limbs that moved jerkily and often sent him tripping over his own feet.

He thought he knew, but it was a childish belief.

These weren't things that you could just _know_ , these were things that you had to be taught.

Usually painfully and at a heavy price.

Stiles had paid that price.

His possession by the Nogitsune had taken him to places that he'd never wanted to go, places he hadn't realized it was _possible_ to go. Or at least possible to come back from.

Stiles had come back, but at what cost he wasn't always sure.

Some days he felt fine, almost like his old self, all smiles and sarcasm and easy interaction, constant talking and shifting emotions and lots and lots of curly fries. Other days it was different. Other days he could _feel_ the ice water bath in his lungs, puddled up inside his chest, and no matter how many thick hoodies he wore he couldn't shake that cold. He might slip in close to Lydia or Scott, try to share their warmth, but that didn't work either. The cold was inside, and days like that he thought he'd never thaw out.

But it wasn't just the cold that was different.

Some days he felt like he might rattle out of his skin if he didn't do _something_.

The problem was, he didn't know what.

He took his Ritalin like clockwork now, but the medication only made him feel more trapped. His body calmed. He could sit like stone for hours if he chose, an eerie behaviorism left behind by the thousand year old spirit who'd claimed him, who could wait for decades for what it wanted. Still, still, dead still, with skin like ice just to sweeten the deal. No knee-bouncing, no pencil-chewing or finger-tapping, and it drove him halfway to madness because inside his mind was racing. In a way it felt a lot like a panic attack, only much, much worse, because his body couldn't even hyperventilate in an attempt to save itself.

Instead he just sat, the world still spinning away around him, and as time went on the darkness in his heart seemed to grow, to spread until it began to taint his thoughts.

He had first noticed it when the kid next to him in Chemistry kept rapping his pencil against his knee, absent-minded but harsh on his hearing, making him feel hypersensitive and tingly, like he could actually _feel_ the sound rasping over his skin. Easy, so easy to make that sound stop. To just lash out a hand, strike fast and hard, snap that thin, fragile wrist, crush it under his fingers…

Stiles had blinked himself out of that daydream with his heart pounding, rushed out of class with his mouth as dry as sand. He'd tried to shake it off, tell himself that it was understandable - he'd been possessed by a murderous demon-spirit for a good bit there; of course there was going to be a few side effects for a while.

But they didn't stop.

The need he felt, the tingle in his fingertips, it grew and twisted inside of him, honing itself down until it was clear, defined, perfect. A shining shard of mirrored glass that cut at his soft insides.

Control.

He wanted it, _needed_ it, needed it to function, to breathe. Himself, his world, his whole environment, he wanted to control it. Under possession he'd lost everything, every right to move or do or say, and he still wasn't sure if he felt like he'd gotten that back.

It made sense that he wanted to take control of his own body and mind back. That was natural, right. He was ok with that.

It was the other that was worrying him.

The darkness.

The Void.

The violence and anger and rage that was bubbling up with it, got all twisted together and confused.

That's what worried him.

Strange, he almost didn't care that it was _there_. He wasn't the same Stiles anymore, and with all he'd been through it was no surprise that violence had become a part of his makeup. When the desire to hurt someone came over him, when the urge flashed through his mind like a split-second day-dream, there was little guilt associated anymore. Less and less with time in fact. This had been done to him, this dark apathy, and he was almost certain that it was just the shadows of the Nogitsune's presence still inside him, the scars it had left behind. Not his fault, and really nothing he could change.

At best he was resigned to it.

At worst, he thought he might even… welcome it.

Relish it.

The only worry that lurked anymore was that these urges would cause him to lose what he wanted even more than to hurt.

To control.

Just like anything else, he wanted, _needed_ , that iron-clad control.

If he was going to act on it, or if he wasn't, it would be on _his_ terms.


	2. All Grown Up

He was gorgeous like this.

To be fair he'd always been pretty; pale, lean, horribly fragile, with eyes so dark a man could drown in them.

A regular Bambi caught in the headlights.

Like this though, like this he was magnificent.

'You've come a long way baby,' Peter thought as he watched Stiles rise from his crouch, spattered in ruby red with his baseball bat clutched tightly in his hands.

Taller, broader, running for his life and shouldering far more of the responsibility than was his share had brought him up from a boy to a man, and where he was still pale and vulnerable in certain places he was hard muscle and battle scars everywhere else. Eyes that had once been wet and wide with innocence now shone brightly with the sharpness of a cunning mind, an understanding of reality and a willingness to live in the grey, and Peter often found himself fighting strange feelings of pride when it came to the Spark.

He'd had a hand in all this after all, had been that catalyst that got it all moving again after Derek and Laura had abandoned the family territory and left him behind.

Certainly the nogitsune and all the monster madness that had followed had done a real number on the kid, but he couldn't help thinking that Stiles is better off, just plain better like this.

He's become rather a bit like Peter's ultimate masterpiece.

More so than Scott anyway, worthless boy, too soft to ever be a real werewolf, True Alpha or not.

It was Peter's secret that he had had enough of his mind with him that night to bite the teen on purpose, not because Scott would make a good pack member but because he would make a good pawn. He'd had enough of his wits to know he could never take Stiles by force - thinks that even now, had he bitten him back then, Stiles would be his downfall - but he's still never stopped trying to convince him, to cajole him, and that's a secret he'd take to his grave.

He's starting to accumulate a lot of those.

"The fuck are you looking at?" Stiles snarls between clenched teeth and Peter can see the anger boiling in him, the hate and the cold, empty places as the boy's eyes flash the color of hot pitch.

Peter doesn't answer, just grins as he watches the boy drag the back of his wrist across his jaw, watches his tongue flash out between sharp, white teeth to taste the bright copper blood he smudges away. God he would have made a beautiful werewolf – wicked, aggressive, the perfect Alpha's mate if not the perfect Alpha on his own.

Yes, Peter could see it, could see all the possibilities and all the potential coiled up tight inside of him like a ball of tension wire, ready to snap, and wouldn't that be the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen? It's enough to have him walking stiff-legged back to the Jeep, his jeans a hell of a lot tighter than they'd started out tonight. The physical attraction he's used to at this point, and he's a lot more accepting about it than he used to be now that the kid's legal and moved out of his gun-toting father's house.

He may be a creep, but he's not that kind of creep, and yeah, maybe he's fucked up enough that he likes being hurt, especially during sex, but he's not suicidal.

Stiles will never be the safe option, but Peter's not looking for safe.

Not that he's really looking at all, just...

Well it's getting harder and harder to keep it in his pants.

The kid smells so fucking good like this, so sweet and cold and bloody Peter wants to lick him, drop to his knees and suck him down until he's so close to losing it he just fists his hands in Peter's hair and takes.

It's stupid, putting himself in a position of vulnerability like that, especially with Stiles, the only member of the pack that actually had the brains and the balls to truly kill him once and for all. Lydia, yes, she could, but she won't. Murder, no, she's too cultured for that, too fragile inside the cool, competent shell she wears like armor.

Stiles though, Stiles...

He could do it, could have done it even before the nogitsune, and damn if that isn't responsible for half his hard-on right there.

What?

He's never claimed to be entirely sane again.

But fuck, the way he moves.

It's all competence now, efficiency and the calculated expense of energy, how to the most 'bang for his fuck' so to speak. He's as dangerous as any supe now, necessity making him as deadly as Peter was. Taking care of himself, protecting his friends, cleaning up after Scotty-boy's messes; they've had a lovely effect on the Spark, and the nogitsune had done the rest, showing him what it could be like if he truly took hold of his destiny and embraced what he could become.

Creative little bastard too – Peter can just imagine all the ways the kid might come up with to hurt someone.

Derek grimaces when he comes stalking up out of the woods into the clearing where they'd parked, Scott's arm slung over his shoulder. The intrepid Alpha had gotten himself slashed trying to negotiate with their monster-of-the-month, but his nephew seemed more disgusted by the scent of Peter's arousal than by the waste of a perfectly good Alpha's bite he's currently supporting.

Still he doesn't say anything, and really isn't that just for the best? Like the son of bitch has any room to judge – none of Peter's relationships have ever ended in murder or mass destruction.

Besides, Derek is a born were – he might deny it to his dying day but there's a reason he'd been drawn to Kate, and then to Jennifer, and then to Braedon. Strong women, aggressive women, dangerous women – there's something to be said for seeking out a partner that can keep up with you.

The masochism, that's an entirely different basket of mental health issues, and no, not one he discusses with his nephew, even if he personally believes that Derek is an even bigger one than he is.

He should really probably see a fucking therapist, but isn't the other thing more fun?

Besides, he does it because he likes it, because he enjoys it, not because he's punishing himself.

The universe has punished him enough over the years, thanks very much, he'll do as he fucking pleases to please himself.

Which... is how he ends up riding shotgun in the goddamn death machine Stiles still drives all the way back to the fully refurbished Hale house, Lydia in the backseat while Scott, Kira, and Liam ride in the soccer-mom monstrosity Derek traded up for. Stiles sits stiffly in the drivers seat, hands tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles white beneath the blood and bruises but the smell coming off of him is sheer adrenaline, rich and musky, like sweat, like sex, and he's got a bulge in his pants bigger than Peter's.

Makes his mouth fucking water.

If the banshee weren't in the back Peter might've just taken the risk, dropped his hand into the kid's lap and squeezed just to see what kind of reaction he'd get.

If he was lucky Stiles met backhand him, luckier still and he'd hit the brakes hard enough to bounce Peter's skull off the windshield.

A long, deep rumble rolls up out of his chest and he bites his lip hard enough that he tastes copper, his fangs dropping without his permission. Stiles flicks him a look that's angry and irritated and promises all kinds of threats, which doesn't exactly help, but Peter just tips up his chin, lifts his lip in a signature sneer and flashes a canine, challenging. The kid scowls right back at him, drops his hand to the gear shaft and punches the vehicle into third gear, stomping down on the pedal and sending them rocketing down the highway into the dark.


End file.
